


The Heart Lies Heavy

by Thranduil_is_a_bitchking



Category: The Man in the High Castle (TV)
Genre: I can't watch one show without finding a gay ship, M/M, No shame, and Cuteness, and copious phone conversations, lord help me, settle down kids, someone please stop me, tell me I'm not alone, there be angst
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-11
Updated: 2017-10-17
Packaged: 2018-08-14 12:50:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,131
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8014654
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thranduil_is_a_bitchking/pseuds/Thranduil_is_a_bitchking
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>We have captured all the positions</i>
  <br/>
  <i>And on the heights we have planted the banners of our revolution.</i>
  <br/>
  <i>You had imagined that that was all that we wanted</i>
  <br/>
  <i>We want more – we want all.</i>
  <br/>
  <i>Your hearts are our goal, it is your souls that we want.</i>
  <br/>
  <i>
    <b>Anonymous NSDAP Poet</b>
  </i>
</p>
<p>Somehow, without much effort at all, John had managed to capture Joe, both heart and soul.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, hello everyone! Somehow, I started shipping John and Joe, and it's safe to say these two have ruined my life. I hope I'm not the only one who ships these two, because they're so cute it's unreal. 
> 
> Also, holy hell, Rufus Sewell. *drools*
> 
> As always,  
> Enjoy!

'Joe,' A voice says, and Joe Blake looks up to see his mentor and friend, Obergruppenführer John Smith slip a cigarette between his lips and light it. He's offered one, and takes it. He pulls out his lighter, flicks it into a flame and ignites the tip of the cigarette. His eyes glance briefly upwards and he pauses. A man, shrouded in shadows, moves through the darkened street. He watches him for a moment, but the man does nothing interesting. So, Joe returns his attentions to the smoke that rises in grey plumes from his mouth as he exhales.

Cars drive by, their engines loud and rhythmic. Joe keeps an eye out for the car they'll be riding in. He shifts his weight from one foot to the other, boots scuffling the paved concrete of the sidewalk. He clears his throat. His cigarette perched between his teeth, he loosens his collar with his index finger as John glances at him out of the corner of his eye. He fiddles some more, the fabric of his uniform just not comfortable. Then, he notices the pin pinned to his jacket is crooked. Letting out a puff of smoke, he undoes it, furrowing his brow in concentration. He fiddles with it for awhile, letting out a small sound of pain when his finger slips and the sharp tip pierces his thumb. He exhales sharply through his nose, and glares at the throbbing appendage like it had personally offended him before taking it into his mouth. His eyebrows furrow, and the taste of copper pools on his tongue, mingling with the ashy smoke from his cigarette. The sting is minute, but irritable. He huffs, shakes out both his hands, and tries again. 

John watches him for a while, silently, then sighs. He batts Joe's hands away and straightens the pin himself, his half finished cigarette perched elegantly between his fingers. There's something fond in the frustration of his eye roll. Joe feels heat crawl up his neck and wills it away. He nods gratefully, and a little sheepishly, at John, and the older man steps back. Joe watches him for a moment. He has a presence, Joe thinks. Always at ease, never seemingly ruffled by anything. Body language exuding casual confidence, he gives nothing away. But his eyes, they tell a different story. Genuine and expressive to those who know him well enough. Terrifying and cold to those who don't. 

Realising he's been staring for longer than socially acceptable, Joe looks away. He shuffles his feet, removes the cigarette from his mouth, taps out the ash that had been accumulating at the tip onto the floor. He rocks forwards onto his toes, stays there for a second, then drops back onto his heels. He stares attentively at the white paper slowly being burnt away while they wait. 

John's patience seems infinite, and he flicks absently through a file Joe hadn't seen him pull out of his briefcase, leaning casually against the wall. Joe wonders if anything could phase the man. Probably not, he thinks. Feeling boredom settle restlessly under his skin, he takes out his lighter, flicks it into a flame, then extinguishes it, then flicks it back to life, then extinguishes it again. Out of the corner of his eye, he spots the man from before, still lurking, standing directly opposite them. Joe shrugs to himself. The man's a bit of a creep, so what? 

The car pulls up, and Joe lets his forgotten cigarette drop to the floor. He crushes the nub under his boot as John snaps the file closed.

Joe looks up from the floor, the lighter in his hand slipping to the floor as the man opposite them pulls something out of his pocket and hurls it towards them. He doesn't think. He throws himself onto the man next to him with a broken shout, both of them hitting the floor hard.

An explosion rips through the air, and Joe feels the back of his neck burning. He tightens his grip, feels John shift so that Joe is now partially beneath him. He curls into John's body, squeezes his eyes shut. John's hands are warm on his back, safe and secure. His body is tense, muscles coiled tight. Windows shatter and car alarms ring out. People scream and run. Smoke billows up into the clear sky in blackened plumes, the air crackling with heat.

'Sir?' Joe hears himself say, past the ringing in his ears. Pieces of fiery debris rain down around them. Sirens scream loudly in his ears, and he swallows past the smell of smoke and burning flesh. John takes too long to answer, and Joe is gripped with the fear that his mentor is either seriously hurt or dead.

'Joe,' John says, finally, and Joe lies back, relieved beyond words. His head hits the concrete pavement with a dull thud. 'Are you alright, Joe?'

'Yeah. Uh, I think so.' Joe nods, mentally checking himself. He nods again, and becomes acutely aware of the other man's closeness.

'Obergruppenführer!' Someone calls, loud and urgent. The man lying next to him takes a breath, and picks himself up off of the floor.

'Here,' he says, extends a hand to Joe. Joe looks at it, swallows, and takes it, hauls himself to his feet. He feels a sting just above his eyebrow, and blood drips down past his eye and onto his collar. His superior looks at him with concern and gratitude, his sharp features softened with worry. The gash on his cheek leaks blood, and Joe checks him over for any other obvious sign of injury. He's favouring his left leg, but other than that, he seems fine. Shaken, but fine.

'Obergruppenführer, are you alright?' Their driver asks, having clambered from the car, small cuts littering his hands and face from the glass and the shrapnel. John, looks around. Green eyes sweep over the scene. The man who'd tried to kill them fights the SS guards who restrain him. There are bodies lying on the ground and injured people being assessed by medics. 

'I'm fine. Get yourself seen to.'

'Yes, Obergruppenführer,' The man says, clicks his heels together and salutes. Joe watches him leave, turns to his mentor. 

'You saved my life Joe,' John begins and Joe preens somewhat under his mentor's attentions. He disguises it with a shrug. 'Thank you.'

'Nothing I wouldn't do again, sir,' says Joe. John smiles at him, just for a second, but it's more than enough for Joe. Then, John's eyebrows knit together with worry. He reaches out, and tilts Joe's chin upwards with a gentle hand. Joe stops breathing, and his heart beats so loudly in his chest he's afraid John will hear. His mentor only sighs. 

'You'll need stitches, Joe.' He says, and Joe both hates and loves how the man says his name so often. 

'Yes sir,' he says, voice quiet. John nods, seemingly satisfied, and drops his hand. Joe exhales, feels his shoulders relax and his chest tighten all at once.

Within the hour, Joe sees a doctor. Now, with the moon high in the sky, and the room bathed in a silver glow, he sits in his mentor's office while the older man interrogates the semite who had tried to kill them, sips the whiskey John's aide had poured him. 

The door opens and Joe stands. He greets his mentor with a glass of whiskey. John takes it from him, offers a tired smile in return. The moonlight filters through the blinds. It casts shadows on his defined cheekbones and illuminates the soft green of his eyes. Joe is transfixed, and realises that he's spaced out only when John calls his name in a voice that suggests he's done so twice already. 

'Sorry, sir,' he says, shaking himself. John looks at him oddly, but shrugs. He drains his glass and pours himself another. 

'Go home, Joe. Get some rest. I'll see you in the morning.'

'Yes sir,' Joe says, finishes his whiskey and places the glass on the table. He reaches the door, but pauses at the sound of his mentor's voice.

'And Joe,' John says, voice serious, 'thank you.' 

Joe allows himself to smile, opens the door and closes it behind him. He smiles all the way home on the monorail, and well into the night. 

It's when he wakes at 3am in a hot flush, breathing heavily with John's name on his lips, he knows he's fucked.


	2. The New World

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello beautiful people! I'm so sorry! It's literally been like three months, but uni has kicked my ass!
> 
> Also, would you guys want these two to get down and dirty, or nah? Let me know!
> 
> As always,  
> Enjoy!

_It's a new day. The sun rises in the East. Across our land, men and women go to work..._

Joe doesn't know why Goebbles actually bothers with this propaganda bullshit. It's meant to promote patriotism or some such crap. At least that what John tells Joe whenever he complains, which is often, but there's always a scoff in John's voice. Like he doesn't quite see the point of them either. Goebbles says that film and radio are the best ways to get across their point. The best way to indoctrinate. All Joe knows is that they're usually boring, monotonous and, quite frankly, and insult to his intelligence. 

At least he's safe in the knowledge that this film is a means to an end. He's here to meet a contact. To join the resistance, or, what little of it remains. 

The film is terrible, and it all goes downhill from there, really.

_Everyone has a job, everyone knows the part they play, keeping our country strong and safe._

Joe tunes out the over-exuberant voice that blares over the speakers. He's only half watching the bright images that flash on the screen. A man sits next to him. Joe doesn't turn to look at him, just takes the slip of paper while the voice of the masculine American talks. 

He doesn't stay until the end.

The cinema is empty when he walks through it, the soft chatter of the clerks and the clicking of the cash register blending into the background of Joe's noisy thoughts.

The walk to the monorail is long. Times Square is a buzz of noise and colour. Police sirens and car horns. Joe ignores it, ignores the man trying to sell him a paper. He has a destination in mind.

He climbs the stairs to the monorail. The night is cold, the air damp and heavy from the recent rainfall. He stares at the piece of card in his hands, the bald eagle staring back at him. He wonders, absently, what America would be like, had the Nazis not won. He's not known any world other than one run by the Reich. 

The train pulls up with buzzing hum. He boards, sits in the almost empty carriage.

Joe's nervous. He can admit that to himself. The city zips by, his destination growing closer by the second. He tries not to look suspicious. He knows that, should someone stop to question him, there are men not far behind him. Joe really doesn't want to fuck this mission up before it's even began.

The warehouse is dark and damp. It's clearly underfunded, and the machinery looks old, as do the workers. To his left, a man is selling out his neighbours to a group of brown shirts.

He takes the rickety stairs to the office above, knocks four times.

'Are you the manager, Mr Warren?'

'Yeah.'

'I'm Joe Blake.'

Joe supposes the rest of the conversation goes as he'd expected. Warren's suspicious, naturally. He doesn't seem to suspect Joe of being a spy, even if he's still unconvinced as to Joe's character. Joe feels almost defiant under Warren's hard gaze. He tames it, tries to be polite. 

But then Warren's walking away from him. Joe can't afford that. He knows far too much to be let out alive.

'Yeah, I guess I'm afraid of pain,' says Joe, letting his bag fall to the floor in quiet frustration. 'I don't have any buddies who died in the war, I don't really know what freedom is,' _does anyone?_ 'But I'm not a punk, and I'm not a spy, Mr Warren. I'm here because I wanna do the right thing.' He locks gazes with the older man. Daring him to speak. 'So are you gonna give me the job, or what?'

Warren must see something in the steel of his eyes, the grim set of his jaw. Within a minute, there's a map in front of him. It's the quickest any mission has ever been explained to him. Ten minutes later, Joe's opening the door of a truck.

'See you guys when I get back,' he says, just to say something.

'You'll never see us again. That's how it works.' Warren glances around. When he looks back, his eyes are genuine and almost soft. 'Good luck kid.'

A bright light dazes them all. Shouting in German and English, and Warren is looking panicked. There's the sound of gunfire and dogs barking, and Joe knows he should leave, but he needs to see, needs to know. The workers are firing back, crude handheld guns, half made, unfinished. The sleek black town car glows white under the street lamps. Joe waits to see if anyone gets out, fingers clenched hard around the pistol in his hands. The sound of a gun clicking pulls him back to the fight at hand.

He fires his gun, and an SA officer falls to the floor. The door to his truck slams shut and he puts his foot down. Tires screech and the air fills with the smell of burning rubber. He's looking in his mirror, trying to see how many are dead. He tries to see if it's anyone he recognises. A car horn blares, and Joe's attention snaps back to the road. He swerves, and the car crashes. He keeps driving.

The city streets are quiet and empty. He crosses a bridge, and the autobahn lies ahead. Joe's drives without thinking. He can't think of what just happened, how many were executed. The manager would know pain, if he wasn't dead already. He was just doing what he believed to be right, no matter how wrong he'd been. His heart had been in the right place.

But it was Joe's job to stop people who were wrong. The consequences of their actions were what mattered, not the intentions. Warren's actions were wrong.

Joe drives and drives. Urban areas thin out into rolling countryside. The sun has already risen once, and traversed the overcast sky. It's just peeking out from below the horizon, ready to hand over its shift. The sky, dusted with pink and orange, reveals stars blinking awake. 

'Okay,' Joe says to himself as his eyes fall shut of their own accord. He fishes those energy tablets out of his bag and pops two into his mouth. Either they'll keep him marginally alive or he'll be bouncing off of the walls. Either way, he'll be awake enough to drive. 

The radio is nothing but shifting static as he makes his way through the mountains. The autobahn had given way to country roads the closer he'd gotten to the neutral zone. The whole truck rattles as he drives, a loud, constant vibration that melded with the static into a blanket of white noise. Easy to tune out, harder to keep awake to. Joe taps his fingers on the steering wheel, the bright headlights of the first car he's seen in over two hours making him blink, dazed. 

He feels the moment the tablets begin to kick in. The crawling of restlessness under his skin is more annoying than anything. His heart beats loud and fast, he feels it in his fingers, where skin meets steering wheel. He feels tired, still. Tired but awake all at once. 

He drives and drives, until his tire blows out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Please drop a comment, and let me know if you want these two lovely lads to get it on!


	3. Origami

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here I am, after months and months! One day I'll keep to a schedule, but not today xD
> 
> As always my loves,  
> Enjoy!

It's been a long few days, Joe thinks as he unlocks the door to his motel room. He shoulders it open, and the hinges creak loudly in protest. There's something like an itch beneath his skin, a restlessness he can't shake. He misses home, New York. He misses _John_.

The door swings shut behind him when he steps into the room. He and Trudy had gone to the dam nearby, just for something to do. He'd met her the day before. She'd looked lost, and Joe was never one to pass up an opportunity, even if his heart wasn't quite in it. It still isn't, he thinks as he reaches for a cigarette. The silver of the casing is smooth and cold against his fingers. John had gotten it for him, a while back. Joe carries it everywhere.

Someone walks towards the diner, and Joe watches them through the window. He remembers the man, secluded in the corner of the lobby as he was leaving to see Trudy, and then again when he returned. Joe hadn't thought much of him, but even now he can't get him out of his head. It troubles him. The man's been on his mind all night, suspicious thoughts loud even over the roaring of the water at the dam and Trudy's endless prattle about him. 

It's still light as he approaches the window. The sun peeks over the mountains with amber lashes, blinking through clouds and trees and atmosphere. Joe sighs. He's tired. Still, the phone beckons him, and he reaches over for it. The number is engraved into his soul and he enters it in without thought. As it rings, he resumes his place at the window, and lights his cigarette. 

He's taking his first drag as John's voice comes over the line, 'Joe.'

'Sir,' says Joe, looking out the window in his room. His breath mists in a rhythmic pulsing of condensation on the glass. He twirls the phone cable around his fingers.

'How are you?' John asks him. 

'Good.' Joe smiles, then remembers the reason he actually called. 'There was a man yesterday, in the motel.'

'Oh?'

'Yeah,' says Joe, enjoying how that small sound falls from John lips. It's late, or perhaps early, in New York, he'd be home by now, in his study. But Joe hears background noise, the sound of chatter and phones. So John's still in the office. Joe wonders why. 'He makes origami animals.'

'Origami animals,' hums John, and Joe hears the faint scratching of pen on paper. 'Is he a Jap?'

'No,' says Joe, shifting to lean against the wall. 'American. Trudy says he had a bible.'

'Amazing what you'll find in the neutral zone,' says John, and although his attentions may be elsewhere, Joe knows he's listening raptly. 'My daughters used to make origami animals, they lost patience for it after a while.'

Joe smiles, and he files away the information in his growing collection of little things he's learnt about John's life. 

'Still,' He says, and pauses. Joe hears him turn a page, and he can't contain his curiosity any longer than two seconds. 

'Did you learn, sir?' He asks, almost hesitantly. John laughs, loudly. Slightly self-deprecating. 

'Tried to.' He pauses. 'Can you describe him?'

'Who?' says Joe, snapping out of his daze.

'The man.' John tells him, the sound of papers being moved around reaching Joe from the other end of the phone.

'Uh, yeah, I guess. Slim build, thinning hair, maybe 6"2'.'

John makes a small noise to tell Joe he's heard him, and Joe fiddles with the latch on the window while he waits for John to reply. John shouts for Connelly, but the conversation is too muffled for Joe to hear. So, he watches Trudy step out of the diner and make towards the bookshop. He frowns, and leans forward to see where she's heading. He's right, and she enters the shop, talks with the man behind the counter. John's sigh brings him back to the conversation at hand. 

'Not one of ours,' says John, and Joe hears pages being turned. Joe nods. 'I'll enquire.'

'Yessir,' says Joe. 'Heil Hitler.'

'Heil Hitler,' John answers, and the line goes dead. Joe sighs. He sees Trudy leave the bookshop. She's holding a bible, and she slips it discreetly into the lining of her coat before she pulls it tighter around herself. She enters the diner again, and Joe makes a mental note to pay the bookstore a visit later on. 

He places the phone back in its cradle. At a momentary loss, he pauses. Mind blank, he tries to think of something to do. He sees Trudy in the diner, serving food and pouring coffee. He smiles.

Joe spends the rest of the evening with Trudy. She's pleasant enough. Intelligent, attractive. Her nativity is refreshing to Joe, as is her innocence. A sense of adventure lurks beneath her oversized jacket and off-white blouse. It belies how plain she looks, how ordinary. And she is ordinary, so very ordinary, and Joe wonders, sometimes, what the hell a woman like Trudy is doing in a place like this. He wonders if she knows what she's getting into. 

When he finally makes it back to his room, a sense of contentment settling in his abdomen, he falls into bed with a sigh. His eyes drift closed, and he thinks, absently, that there's something shifty about Trudy. Something that's not quite right. She seems genuine, her smile is natural, her laughter quiet but full. Her name, though, it falls from her lips like some heavy lie, pained and broken. Like it claws at fresh wounds. It belongs neither to her appearance nor to her personality. A square peg in a round hole. Fitting, but not belonging, not owning. Not right. 

The phone rings. 

Joe startles awake, and he's reaching for the gun under his pillow before his mind catches up with his body. He relaxes, and picks up the phone with a smile. 

'Do you know what time it is here?' He says, voice throaty with sleep, and a deep chuckle is what he gets in response. Joe bites his lip, lets out a breathy laugh as warmth spreads in his chest. 

John sobers. 'I have news regarding your origami man.'

Joe makes a small sound of interest, reaching over the bed for a cigarette. He tucks the phone into his shoulder, lights it up and takes a heavy drag as he waits for John to speak again. Restlessness creeps up on him. He stands, phone in hand, and pads over to the window. Tethered to the end-table by the black chord, he leans a shoulder on the wooden window frame, the off-white paint cracked and peeling. The street below is bathed in orange, a thin layer of mist swirling over the concrete like water. 

'He's a very dangerous man Joe,' John tells him, at last. 'An operative of the SD.'

Joe nods, then remembers John can't see him. He pauses, then sighs. 'Why does he have a bible?'

'He could be trying to draw you or your contact out into the open.'

Joe nods. He remembers seeing Trudy talking to him earlier. 'Do I approach him?'

'No,' says John. 'Your mission is off the books Joe. You steer well clear of him, am I understood?'

Joe feigns shock. 'Is that concern I hear?'

He hears the eye roll in John's voice. 'Don't flatter yourself, Joe.'

Joe chuckles, takes a heavy drag of his cigarette. A flicker of light draws his attention. Movement from the street below. Two people. A man and a woman. They stand close, whispering in hushed tones. 

'Hang on, I see him,' he says. He recognises him, and then, the woman. Trudy. Why were they both awake at this hour?

'What's he doing?'

'Just talking,' says Joe, half a cigarette's worth of smoke billowing from his mouth in one, heavy exhale. He stubs out his cigarette on the glass of the window he's looking through. The glass burns a dark brown. The man passes Trudy a blur of white. Joe strains his eyes to get a better look. A white paper bird. Maybe a swan. 'And messing with those goddamn paper animals.'

'You leave him alone, Joe.'

'Yes sir,' says Joe. He goes to hang up.

'Be careful Joe,' John tells him. Joe pauses. He allows himself to bathe in John's concern for a moment before he smiles.

'Yes sir,' he says, softer. 

'Obergruppenführer,' someone's voice carries, distant but audible. Joe pauses, and stops breathing so that he can hear better. 'The Semite has recovered and wants to talk to you. And only you.'

John hangs up, leaving Joe wondering why John would be so concerned with a lowly Semite. He puts the phone down and puzzles it over. He comes up with no tangible reason, nothing that would make sense. He shrugs it off, and pulls out another cigarette and places it between his lips. Tomorrow, he'll talk to the bookkeeper.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Drop me a comment and tell me what you think!


End file.
